


it rolls off the tongue, easy

by unchartedandunknown



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Pining, Post-Time Skip, oh you wanted some soft? Some Yearning-with-a-capital-Y?? Huh?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 17:48:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21676096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unchartedandunknown/pseuds/unchartedandunknown
Summary: The five times Linhardt thinks, “I love you,” and the one time he says it out loud.
Relationships: Linhardt von Hevring/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 29
Kudos: 266
Collections: byhardt





	it rolls off the tongue, easy

**Author's Note:**

> Originally I was gonna write an angst fic about Caspar dying but I managed to avoid that happening in my playthrough for now (you can thank Claude for yeeting the Death Knight before drastic measures had to be taken) so fluff it is. I haven’t even finished this route yet. I’m on part 2. I have a gut feeling the war doesn’t end there, but for my sake we’re gonna ignore that rn ok

i.

With his legs dangling over the pier, cold water laps around his ankles. Linhardt swings them lazily as he lies back, arms supporting the back of his head. The clouds form odd shapes overhead, and he sees one form a blobby bird shape.

Byleth’s fishing rod whirs as he reels in another fish with ease. He deposits the white trout in the basket and hooks another earthworm at the end of the hook.

Linhard admires Byleth’s focus. The way he’s able to concentrate single-mindedly on any task, whether it’s lecturing a class or watering his plants. Even now, as he throws his line into the water again, his brows are furrowed, eyes dark with concentration as he watches for flitting shadows.

He’s not wearing his usual gear today. Instead, he’s wearing dark pants and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It’s not everyday Linhardt sees him dressed so casual, and he watches as the muscles in Byleth’s arm flex as he shifts, sunlight slanting across his wrists. His calloused hands are wrapped around the fishing rod, holding it as easily as he wields a sword.

Byleth frowns at the water, no doubt seeing something Linhardt can’t since he’s lying down. He wants to laugh at his bothered expression, but instead a feeling of fondness stirs from a place he always forgets exists.

“Professor,” he says. Byleth breaks his staredown into the water to flick his gaze to him.

When Byleth first looked at Linhardt, a lightning strike of alertness had run down his spine. Because the focus he applies to his tasks is the same focus he applies to anyone who has his attention. Pure, undivided concentration.

And Linhardt wants all of his attention to himself, much in the same way he wants to be the first and only to discover the secrets of Crests.

(Even after all these years, Byleth’s former students still call him ‘professor’. Leonie had tried to call him by his name once; she said it felt too odd, like lifting a lance that was too heavy to hold for long, unaccustomed to its weight.)

When Linhardt was little and Caspar was able to successfully drag him outside (a rare occurrence), they would follow a stream downwards, hidden in the lush forest. One of the rocks in the stream caught his eye one day; a deep blue, the way the sky looked when a storm was forming.

That rock is the same colour as Byleth’s eyes.

Linhardt’s eyes trail to Byleth’s fishing rod, the line being tugged by something underwater.

He closes his eyes. “It’s nothing.”

Byleth stays silent a moment longer, and Linhardt wonders what the pause is for. Did he finally notice?

Seconds later, he hears the splash and wet thud as Byleth reels in another catch and places it in the basket.

  
  
  
  
  
  


ii.

It’s windy today. That’s why Linhardt wanted to be inside, shut in the library or in his room with his books.

Instead, he’s outside, and for what reason? None.

“It’s not that bad,” Caspar says, “Besides, the weather’s perfect for kiting today!”

“Is that why Dorothea is with us without a kite?”

Seated beside Linhardt, Dorothea flashes him a smile. The wind blows her hair back dramatically, and he can imagine her singing on a stage, the light fixed on her face, the world watching, transfixed, as she sang. “Don’t act like you don’t miss my company, Lin.”

Linhardt doesn’t say anything to that becauseーwell. She’s not wrong.

Linhardt always thought he would never grow attached to people the way others did. In a way, he was right. He feels nothing seeing the dead bodies of the students who studied with him years later.

(When Sylvain dies, Linhardt turns away, not from any lingering attachments, but at the sight of blood pooling from his body that made bile rise in his throat and the uncomfortable feeling filling his chest.

Grimly, Byleth wipes his sword, a haunted look in his eyes that always returns once they reach the battlefield and lingers long afterwards.)

But if he had to see any of his allies - companions, friends, whatever titles they hold that Linhardt doesn’t want to think about too hard lest he become sentimental (Goddess forbid) - die, he thinks he would feel more than nothing.

“That’s why I brought two kites,” Caspar says. His second kite is lying on the ground beside him, shaped like a butterfly, wings spread open in soft greens, blues and pinks. His own kite is alight in the sky, vibrant green scales rippling in the wind as the dragon roars in the face of the storm clouds forming overhead.

Dorothea frowns at the sky. “It looks like it’ll rain soon.”

“Like I said, _ perfect _ for kiting.” Caspar grins. Overhead, his dragon flies higher in silent agreement, reaching for the clouds.

It is not, in fact, perfect weather for kiting. Far from it. Rain and thunder makes kiting dangerous. But a little rain has never stopped Caspar.

Dorothea sighs. “Since we’re outside, I suppose I might as well. Orーprofessor!” she calls.

Linhardt opens his eyes lazily from his spot in the grass to see Byleth pause while walking past them, a watering can in his hands.

“Are you going to the greenhouse?”

_ What else is he going to do with a watering can, go fishing? _

Byleth nods to Dorothea’s question, approaching the trio. His eyes are on Caspar’s kite, high in the sky.

“Have you ever flown a kite, professor?” Caspar asks.

He shakes his head.

“Why don’t you give it a try? Here, Dorothea, hold my kiteーdo you like butterflies? Some people don’t like themーyou’re okay with them? That’s good! Now, you want to hold onto the kite like thisーexactly! As expected of our professor. Then you’ll want to let go, and slowly unwind the spool. You want the kite to catch the wind.” Caspar slowly steps away. “That’s it, professor. Hey, you’re pretty good at this!”

The butterfly soars in the air. Byleth unwinds the spool slowly. When he turns to meet Caspar’s eyes, Linhardt notices with a jolt that a small, barely-there smile is on his face, one that’s been appearing more often the more time he spends at the monastery.

(Hilda had made a bet with the other students being taught by the professor. The first to make him smile would be taken off of whatever duty they wanted for a month. She didn’t explain _ how _ that could be done, since the professor himself was the one who made the schedule, but everyone jumped at the chance to make him laugh.

Then he fell off a cliff, and no one heard from him for five years.)

He thought at first that Byleth was emotionless, like so many others assumed at first glance. But that’s not true. Through careful observation, Linhardt discovered his secret: his eyes hold most of his emotions. Amusement, seriousness, surprise. There’s other, smaller things: a clenched jaw, the twitch of lips, a furrowed brow.

_ “Oh my.” _

Linhardt glances at Dorothea, who covers her mouth, eyes twinkling. His stomach drops a little as her gaze travels from him to the professor, then back again.

She noticed. Of course she would. Not only is it Dorothea, incredibly observant in all things romance-related, but how could anyone with a functioning mind not notice when Linhardt feels like that butterfly kite at the sight of Byleth’s smile, soaring weightless in the air. Dorothea smiles like she and Linhardt are sharing a secret. He opens his mouth.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to say to her, but he’s interrupted by the rain that pours suddenly from the sky, the weather taking a definite turn for the worse.

Caspar gathers the kites in his arms, yelling something Linhardt can’t make out over the sound of rain and the slow-building rumble of thunder. But he can see him gesturing, and knows he means to run to their dorms.

Byleth throws his coat over the three of them, as if it’s second nature - which it probably is. Linhardt has seen him push Felix out of the way of an attack from a mage before, something Felix berated him about (“There’s a reason you had me learn magic,” Felix said later. “So thank you for defending me, professor, but I can defend myself. Frankly, I find it offending that you thought you needed to protect me,” to which Byleth nodded, apology and understanding in his eyes). And maybe throwing a coat over people in the rain isn’t on the same scale as throwing yourself in the line of fire, but it gets the point across: he’s self-sacrificing.

The coat offers little protection seeing as the three of them are already drenched, but Linhardt pulls one side closer as Dorothea pulls the other end, Caspar in between them with his kites as they dash for cover, the latter two laughing all the while even though they’re soaked cold to the bone and the rain shows no sign of stopping.

Linhardt just wants to take a nap once he gets back to his room.

  
  
  
  
  
  


iii.

Linhardt is living his best life: surrounded by cats.

How he wishes everyday could be spent like this. A warm wind rushes through the trees, leaves rustling. The sun is warm, but not searing. And he is surrounded by cats.

He can also hear Marianne chattering quietly to a bird a few feet away, which would bother him more if she wasn’t so adorable, and he’s fairly certain she doesn’t know he’s there, so it’s not even her fault.

There’s two cats lying curled up on his stomach and chest. A third is kneading into his leg, which should be uncomfortable but is instead relaxing. Two more circle his head, and the last is wrapped around the arm he hasn’t brought under his head.

His eyes are closed, mind already shifting into shadow as the sounds of the monastery fill in the silence. It’s not the same as it was five years ago; the creak of armour and the tense atmosphere is much more apparent now, and he doesn’t hear laughter as much as before, but it was his home for some time, and it is his home now.

A shadow falls over him. Linhardt opens his eyes to see Byleth staring down at him.

“Good morning, professor,” he says. It’s a little past lunch, but who’s he to care? Time has no meaning when you’re napping throughout the day.

Byleth’s mouth twitches, the beginnings of a smile. “Good afternoon,” he says, bending down to scratch the head of the cat attached to Linhardt’s arm.

It seems Marianne has finally noticed them, because Linhardt can’t hear her anymore. A shame, really.

“Now that I think about it, you’re usually feeding the cats, aren’t you, professor?”

Byleth nods, turning over the cat’s paw to press it softly, watching claws extend and retract like a blade. His presence is familiar enough to the cats that he can do that. Linhardt thinks if he tries he would get scratched for his troubles. “They’re so soft,” he murmurs, and his voice paired with the softness in his eyes reminds Linhardt of a rosy pink dawn after a night spent poring over books, and his heart is being squeezed and squeezed until he’s breathless in the wake of it. He feels warmer now, but not because of the pleasant sunshine or the cats purring softly on him.

Byleth stands again, adjusting the stack of papers in his arms. “I’ll leave you to your napping, Linhardt.”

“Much appreciated,” he says, noting foggily how Byleth gives him a small, tender smile before he leaves.

When he falls asleep, he dreams of sunlight shining shining through dappled leaves to light upon light green hair and plush lips.

  
  
  
  
  
  


iv.

Fighting Edelgard - the empress - is no easy feat. Linhardt is just glad he doesn’t have to do it himself.

Instead he stays in the backlines, anxious in a way that makes him want to close his eyes and wake up to find the battle over. He stays there for the rest of the battlefield, healing wounded soldiers who stagger his way and fighting enemies that come too close.

When Claude returns with Leonie and Byleth at his heels, all Linhardt can do is sigh in relief to himself, and move forward to heal them. Thankfully, they didn’t bring Edelgard’s head, like Dedue vowed he would do for Dimitri, but he can tell the deed is done by the steely glint in Claude’s eyes and Leonie’s shaky smile.

It is wishful thinking for him to hope that with Edelgard’s death, the war will be over. There will surely be outbursts and rebellions throughout the months and more problems that will pop up, things the Alliance will need to quell to achieve their goal and unify as one.

But this brings Linhardt one step closer to his goal - peace and time to study the nature of Crests, and that is what he tries to focus on as he reaches forward, hands splayed above Byleth’s chest to heal him.

Byleth looksーexhausted. Not just physically, but mentally. The war has had that effect on everyone. He looks sorrowfully accepting of the outcome in his own way, even as Claude congratulates everyone on the Alliance’s victory.

Linhardt tries to ignore the splatter of blood on Byleth’s cheek. Doesn’t try to think of where it came from, how they died.

He watches Byleth’s wounds slowly disappear from sight, and knows that an echo of it will remain tonight, in the same way a person can get phantom pains from a limb they used to have.

“Do you remember,” he says, because Byleth’s eyes are still fixed on the ground, “what you told me when I joined your class?”

Byleth’s eyes flick up. Linhardt can see him struggling to recall the event from over five years ago. “I...”

(“I can’t stand the sight of blood.” A shudder. “Edelgard tried to get me to learn reasoning magic, but I would prefer to learn how to heal instead.”

A pause. Then, a nod. “I will take this into consideration. But know that, regardless of what I choose, I will always choose a path that suits you best. I hope. And as long as I am on the battlefield, I can try my best to assure you that no one will die.”)

“I vowed to protect you.”

And he kept his promise. Their side has had plenty of their own losses, and even more close calls - Lorenz especially - but all of the professor’s former students have made it out of this war alive. With enough violence to carve into their eyes and last them several nightmares and sleepless nights, but alive.

“Precisely,” Linhardt says. “And you’ve done that. We’re here now.” I’m _ here now. _ “So let us protect you, like you protected us.”

Byleth has always been different. He was raised to become a mercenary, not teach people how to fight. Killing is easier for him than it is for others. Linhardt knows he’s tried to shield them from the darker - the _ only _, as Linhardt sees it - side of war, even though they are no longer his students. There’s a reason why Byleth is always at the frontlines, and it’s not just to boost morale or follow Claude’s strategies.

There is so much Linhardt wants to do, to say. He wants to lean in closer to Byleth’s warmth, savour it like a cup of warm tea on a cold night. He wants to embrace him and reassure them both that despite everything that happened, Byleth tried his best, even if it wasn’t enough to save the students who had fallen before them.

Instead, he swallows the words that rise in his throat. Reaches forward. With the end of his sleeve, wipes away the blood on Byleth’s cheek, so only a faint crimson smear remains.

Byleth closes his eyes. He sways, and Linhardt pauses. Byleth’s lower lip trembles, so slight if you weren’t watching close enough you might miss it.

But Linhardt is watching. He’s been watching for some time now.

Byleth moves, and Linhardt tenses. But Byleth only moves forward, head dropping to rest on Linhardt’s shoulder. His weight is grounding and should be reassuring, but all Linhardt can think about is the time Marianne had him hold a bird with a broken wing.

Its body was shaking in his hand as he held it. He knew, then, that he could crush its heart simply by pressing down with his thumb, could feel it beating rapidly underneath as it chirped weakly. A morbid thought, now that he thinks back on it.

Byleth reminds him of that bird, vulnerable and open in his hands. But the only heart he can feel beating under his metaphorical thumb is his own, scared and hummingbird-fast.

“I tried,” Byleth whispers, quiet so only Linhardt can hear the defeat in his voice. “But no matter how many times I turned it back, the result was the same.” He laughs dryly. Linhardt holds him tight. He never wants to hear Byleth laugh like that again, like the world is devoid of light and happiness. “I couldn’t save them.”

Linhardt doesn’t really know what he’s talking about, but he thinks he understands enough.

“No,” he concedes. Byleth stiffens. Linhardt runs a hand through sticky, matted hair, if only to feel Byleth relax under his touch. “You couldn’t save them.”

Linhardt’s gaze travels to their group. To Bernadetta, flitting around a wounded Felix being healed by Mercedes. To Hilda, showing Ignatz her chipped nails, battle axe lying on the ground, abandoned. To Lysithea, offering Raphael and Flayn water.

“But you saved us.”

War is not easy. Linhardt hopes he never has to fight again.

Byleth smells of blood and death and everything Linhardt hates, but he holds him tight and dreams of tomorrow.

  
  
  
  
  
  


v.

He had been surprised when he had been approached with the request months later. A little flattered that he had even been in his thoughts when the idea had formed.

Now, though, Linhardt tilts over in the chair, eyes already half-closed.

“Please stay still,” Ignatz says, bordering on pleading. Linhardt can’t even see him from behind the easel, trying to capture Linhardt’s likeness in a portrait.

(“I was thinking of doing portraits of everyone, after the war was over,” Ignatz says in front of Linhardt’s room. He looks nervous - a little too nervous for someone with as much talent who has put in as much work as him.

Because the war really is over now. Claude and Byleth are preparing to usher in a new era of Fódlan's future, and the monastery is alive with activity he can only recall seeing five years ago.

Linhardt squints at him, still half asleep. “And you want to paint me as well?”

Ignatz blinks at him owlishly. “I said everyone so, yes. You fought with us, after all.”)

“Are you done yet?” Linhardt yawns. Perhaps they shouldn’t have started this early, but he thinks he would still fall asleep regardless of the time. The sun is just beginning to peak above the monastery’s walls, a soft pink blush the barely reaches where they are now in the courtyard where they usually have tea.

“I just started.” He can hear Ignatz’s frown. “Maybe if I canーprofessor!” A wooden clatter. Ignatz’s paint brushes falling to the floor. “Can you help me keep Linhardt awake for his portrait?”

Linhardt forces his eyes open to see Byleth walking toward them. His eyes are bright and he’s alert enough this early in the morning for Linhardt to feel a little jealous. His steps are light, and even with no smile on his face Linhardt can tell he’s happy.

Byleth leans over Ignatz’s portrait. “You need to talk to him about Crests. Or cats, or fishing.”

“You know me so well, professor,” Linhardt says, watching Byleth shift at his comment. Strange. “Speaking of Crests, when will you allow me to analyze your own?”

Byleth hums as he approaches Linhardt. “Another time.” His tone is humorous, but his eyes are serious as he appraises Linhardt.

After learning what happened to Lysithea and Flayn’s kidnapping five years ago, Linhardt’s had to rethink the possible costs of experimenting with Crests, and on humans. Is forcing a second Crest on an unwilling person _ really _ worth the trauma and pain?

(The answer is no. Clearly.)

But that doesn’t stop him from wanting to learn more about Crests. And if the professor gave Linhardt permission to study his own...

Byleth pulls up a chair next to Linhardt. He blinks. “Professor?”

“Do you have room to include a second person, Ignatz?”

“Ofーof course!” Ignatz is moving behind the easel, no doubt erasing or working around his first sketch.

“Thank you.” Byleth turns to Linhardt. “This way, you can sleep.”

“Where? On your shoulder?” He’s half-joking, half-hoping when he says this, but Byleth nods like this was his plan all along. Which, maybe it was. He has to do a double take. “You’re offering?”

Byleth’s mouth twitches. “That _ is _ what I said.”

Linhardt doesn’t know if the next thing that will come out of a sentence or a garbled imitation of human noise, so he bites his tongue. He thinks he should be more worried about the state of his clothes, how he hasn’t combed through his hair and this is how he is being immortalized, paintbrush to paper.

All he feels, however, is a rush of gratitude.

“Are you sure you’re okay being remember like this?” Linhardt murmurs.

“Like what?”

Byleth is more put together than Linhardt at least, with his hair combed and the sleep rubbed out of his eyes. But he’s dressed casually today, in a dark blue shirt and beige pants. He remembers seeing Byleth in armour, the way he wore it proudly, with familiarity. A sculptor could immortalize his determination in stone, sculpt him with the sharp edges of his armour and the sleek lines of his coat, wielding the Sword of the Creator like the hero people claim him to be.

“Human,” Linhardt says, because it’s the only way to sum up the softness of Byleth’s eyes now, the rounded corners of his shoulders and the cowlick on the back of his head that he missed while combing his hair.

Byleth’s lips quirk up, a faint shadow of a smile. “Why would I want to be remembered any other way?”

Linhardt knows people will tell tales of the Alliance. Claude and his schemes, the Crest of Flame that led them to battle. They will surely speak of the one who led the charge, mercenary-turned-hero, who later on became the archbishop of the Church of Seiros. Stories will be passed on, from markets to houses, to allies and nations beyond.

But will they know that Byleth named a cat Purrlita? Or that he’s a terrible cook, so he always gets Ashe or Bernadetta to help him? Or that once, Linhardt had the opportunity to hear him laugh, when Caspar launched himself off the pier and into the water on a dare, and Linhardt drunk in the laugh like a parched man dying of thirst? Did they see him weep over the grave of his parents the day after his father passed, and know that he felt like the world was ending?

If the world has to remember Byleth, let it be this, Linhardt thinks, his head lying on Byleth’s shoulder. Let it be Ignatz’s painting and the softness of his face. Let it be his kindness, his pleas to convince former students to turn their back on the Empire. Let it be his steadiness, the way he could always reassure everyone around him with a calm composure.

Let him be human.

“It’s a shame,” Byleth murmurs, as Ignatz hums to himself off-key, in the throes of his craft. “That you’ll be drawn asleep in this.”

“And why’s that?” Linhardt’s eyes are already closed, so all he feels is Byleth, breathing softly. The air is cold. He can feel the sun rising before them.

“Ignatz won’t be able to capture the colour of your eyes,” Byleth says. “Your eyes are precisely the colour of the blue hydrangeas in the greenhouse.”

“Is that why you spend so much time in there?” Linhardt’s mind drifts, aimless. He’s thinking of the greenhouse, and how Dorothea can be found there sometimes, though he never did see her gardening. He wonders why.

“Maybe.”

Linhardt feels sleep approaching, even as the monastery begins to wake. “Why see an imitation when you can see the original for yourself?”

Linhardt finds that falling asleep is easy, and easier still is falling in love. Byleth makes it so.

  
  
  


(And if the world forgets Byleth’s humanity, Linhardt will still remember.)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


If he doesn’t blink, the words don’t blur between the lines. But then his eyes start to water from the strain, so he finds himself blinking every few seconds.

Contrary to what many people think of him, Linhardt doesn’t get much sleep. There’s a reason why he’s always napping whenever possible, and that’s because he works by night.

The melted candle wax pools around the small plate as the fire putters on. Linhart’s face is practically pressed to the page with how close his nose is to the paper. He’s long given up any semblance of organization; papers and books are strewn about. Ink stains his fingers from when he accidentally spilled some earlier that night. Stray hair keeps covering his eyes no matter how many times he pushes it behind his ear, falling out of the braid Bernadetta did earlier that day. Or maybe technically yesterday. You can’t tell time in a library, and Linhardt has long stopped trying.

He’s brought back to his senses by the sweet scent of mint and sugar. He lifts his head up to find a cup of tea steaming across the table.

He jumps in his seat at the face that greets him. “Professor.” His back cracks as he straightens. He rolls his joints, unlocking from the position he’s been stuck in. “Might I ask what you’re doing up so late?”

Byleth frowns. His brows are pinched together. Linhardt wants to reach and smooth it out with his ink-stained finger.

His hand twitches. He knows his common sense tends to leave depending on his fatigue, but he really can’t afford it to flee now.

“It’s almost dawn,” Byleth says. He has a blanket wrapped around him, and for a moment Linhardt can imagine him as a child, lying under the covers reading a story. Though, he doesn’t know if his childhood was anything like that. “Have you been here all night?”

Linhardt checks his dishevelled clothing and tries to run a hand through his unruly hair. “What gave you that idea?”

“You should sleep soon.”

“And I will, once I get through this book.” Linhardt reaches for the cup, the warmth filling his hands. “Thank you for the tea.” And then, absentmindedly, like this is something you can afford to be absent-minded about, he adds, “I love you” like an afterthought.

Byleth blinks. Realizing what he said, Linhardt downs the steaming cup of angelica tea. Curse his sense for leaving him now. He wasn’t planning on saying it now. Well, he wasn’t planning on saying itーever. But if he _ was _ going to say it, it wouldn’t go like this.

His tongue burns, but it’s better than having to speak in this awkward silence.

When he blinks, the words blur even further. Somehow, this tea only made the desire to sleep more apparent.

“How long?” Linhardt looks up, alarmed at how choked up Byleth sounds, only to pause.

Because the son of the former captain of the knights, known as the Ashen Demon to his greatest foes and Fell Star to others still, is flushed red, from his neck to the tips of his ears.

Linhardt nurses the cup of tea in his hands, thinking back. To the time he first heard of the professor in passing, the strange Crest he had, how reliable his students claimed he was.

“I don’t remember anymore,” he admits. “At first I thought maybe I was simply interested in the mystery surrounding your Crest, but after you disappearedー” He told himself that Byleth had died, that it was a shame he never got to study his Crest, but he returned five years later, and something in Linhardt caved at the relief he felt, the quiet acceptance that settled over him like morning mist when he saw him at the monastery. “ーand came back, I realized that maybe I was interested in...more than your Crest.”

Byleth doesn’t speak. Linhardt discovers that it’s because he’s clutching the table like a crutch, his grip white. He thinks Byleth might break the table. He wants to tell him to unclench his jaw.

“Professor?” he tries mildly. Byleth doesn’t reply, and Linhardt doesn’t know what makes him do it. Maybe it’s the fatigue, or the smell of the tea. Maybe it’s the fact that the candle is burning lower still, setting his face in a warm orange glow that makes him feel intimately safe. “Byleth?”

Byleth snaps to attention. His ears are scarlet, and his eyes are shaking. Linhardt feels that pressure again, a bird’s heartbeat under his hands, faint static in his ears, but this time he grins. “Byleth,” he tries again, just to hear the way the name sounds. He hasn’t heard anyone use the professor’s name. It’s always titles or nicknames. His name sounds like footsteps echoing down halls, the laughter of youth in the monastery. His name fits in Linhardt’s mouth like it was made to be said by him.

Byleth makes an aborted motion toward him before stopping. This is the most flustered - because that’s what he has to be, what else can it be? - he's seen him yet, and Linhardt leans closer, smile growing. He’s never felt so awake.

Byleth’s hands are shaking when they touch Linhardt’s face, feather-light. Linhardt leans into the warmth, hearing Byleth’s sharp intake of breath and smiling against his palm.

“Youー” Byleth leans forward, hand moving. In the dim light he looks transfixed. Linhardt can’t imagine him moving away for any reason. “You have an eyelash on your cheek.” His finger tickles Linhardt as he brushes it away.

“Tell me, Byleth,” Linhardt whispers, hand clutching Byleth’s wrist. He knows Byleth can feel his pulse from his neck, faster than a horse’s gallop. “Can you imagine living a long life with me as your companion?”

Byleth places his forehead against Linhardt’s. Their noses brush. Byleth’s breath is warm, still musty from sleep. “Why would I imagine it when I can live it for myself?”

Byleth’s hair is soft. In this light, it looks like it’s made of starlight. Linhardt runs his hand through it. Byleth shivers.

When Byleth leans forward to kiss him, Linhardt meets him halfway. It’s everything he dreamed it to be; soft lips moving against his, the taste of honey. Maybe Byleth had tea himself before he brought Linhardt his own. A gentle sigh escapes as Byleth nibbles on Linhardt’s lower lip. He finds that nothing gives him quite the electrical shock as Byleth’s tongue swiping across his teeth.

Linhardt pulls Byleth closer, needs him pressed to him. He hears something clatter from the table, and can’t bring himself to care. Byleth’s kiss slowly turns into a smile, and when Linhardt pulls back, he can’t bring himself to feel disgruntled because Byleth has a full, wide-mouthed grin on his face. He has _ dimples _. On both sides.

Then Linhardt notices the slowly growing problem happening behind Byleth’s back.

“Fire,” he says dumbly, then, louder, as if to assure himself that yes, he has eyes, “Fire!”

Byleth turns around. It’s the first time Linhardt hears him swear. Loudly, and with feeling.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Afterward, the two will find themselves on the ground, exhausted, having successfully put out the fire before it spread beyond Linhardt’s table.

“I’m sorry about your notes,” Byleth says. He’s drenched in the water spell Linhardt casted. He drags a hand through his soggy hair, exhausted. There are subtle ink stains on his face and neck. Linhardt has never found him more beautiful. “And the books.”

Linhardt laughs, breathless. “It’s alright. WeーIーwe should get some sleep before everyone else wakes up.”

Byleth’s eyes glitter. “My room is near the dorms,” he says, as if Linhardt doesn't already know this.

Linhardt splays out on the ground as Byleth stands up, dusting his clothes. “Only if you carry me.”

Byleth huffs a smile.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Morning arrives quickly.

Byleth is already awake when Linhardt wakes. A strand of Linhardt’s hair is being looped around a finger repeatedly in a way that makes him think perhaps Byleth has been doing it for hours on...loop. His eyes stare back at him, muted in the darkness. Sunlight shines faintly through a crack in the doorway. The sound of chirping birds.

“Good morning,” Linhardt says, voice rough with sleep.

“Good afternoon,” Byleth corrects him. He shifts in his place on top of Linhardt’s chest but doesn’t leave. He has a fascination with his heartbeat. It makes sense, considering he doesn't have one of his own.

But that’s alright. Linhardt’s heart beats loud and steady enough for the both of them.

“The day’s already half wasted,” Linhardt says. “Would it be so wrong for me to fall asleep again?”

“No,” Byleth murmurs, and he is already reaching for the candle, putting it out again. In the darkness he says, like a secret, “You smell like home.”

Linhardt feels his heart stutter, knows Byleth hears it. He reaches blindly for the hand that isn’t playing with his hair, if only to kiss the inside of his wrist. “What do I smell like?”

Byleth hums, the sound travelling as a rumble up Linhardt’s chest. He’s switched to tracing a pattern on Linhardt’s neck, the soft brush of finger against skin tickling him. “The grass after it rains. The pier in the morning.” A sniff. “Smoke.”

Linhardt laughs. “I haven’t showered in days, Byleth. And I _ do _ have plenty of napping spaces in the monastery. And the smoke is obviously from the fire.” He pauses. “If it’s so late, how has no one come in to talk about it?”

“Cyril did, but he left as soon as he realized I wasn’t alone.”

“Wasn’t alone, hm?” Linhardt says, thinking about how flustered Cyril must have been. “What if I slept here every night?”

“You can sleep here whenever you want.”

“I think I will. You’re the most peaceful sleeping partner I’ve had yet. Doesn’t move in his sleep, doesn’t talk, doesn’t hog the blankets or try and kick me out of the bed.” He will never forgive Caspar for that one, even if he was asleep when it happened.

“Is that all I am?” Byleth says jokingly. “A ‘sleeping partner’?”

“Would ‘the love of my life’ suffice?”

Byleth’s smile presses against his neck, and Linhardt feels drunk on sunshine. “Yes. It would.”


End file.
